


On the Precipice of Despair

by EnglishCivilWar



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drug Use, M/M, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-31
Updated: 2013-10-08
Packaged: 2017-12-25 04:46:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/948780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnglishCivilWar/pseuds/EnglishCivilWar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Rockstar Dean Winchester has it all: the money, the fame, and - a drug-addicted brother. After transferring Sam to a mental ward to deal with his addiction (and help him overcome his father's verbal abuse), Dean meets Castiel, a suicidal man with a knack for business. The two form a partnership, and all seems well - but soon, their tortured pasts come back to haunt them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Burden of the Past

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this multichapter AU fic stems from an idea that my brother, Jeremy, created. Every plot element was devised by him. In about a half hour. So he's awesome.
> 
> Anyway, in this fanfic Dean is in a rock band, Sam is a heroin addict, and Cas is suicidal and in a mental ward. I hope you enjoy it!

“Dean, you're on in five.”

Dean nods, careful to keep his microphone from picking up the chatter of the backstage area. Around him, people are bustling back and forth, getting everything ready for the show. He clears his throat, attempting to rid himself of the phlegm building up on his vocal chords, and picks up his premium water bottle. The drummer passes by – what's his name? - and taps Dean on his shoulder.

“Dude, there's like, nobody in the audience. What the hell?” the drummer says, an annoyed look on his face.

Dean shrugs. “I don't know, what are you asking me for?” he responds, gulping down his water.

“Uh, maybe 'cause you're paying me jack shit?” the drummer scoffs. He shakes his head. “If the next gig we play at is the same, I'm quitting.” He strides off to rejoin the rest of the band.

Dean rubs his hand over his face. Great. Another pissed off musician. That's the third one this week. _Didn't Bernie say he was gonna hire a new sales person, or advertising manager or something to boost our publicity?_ Dean thinks, setting the water down and straightening his jacket. He's not all that interested in the business side of entertainment. That's Bernie's job.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it is our pleasure to introduce - the amazing - Dean Winchester and the Angels!” The announcer gestures off stage, and Dean sucks in a breath.

He pushes away the curtain.

* * *

“Get off your ass and make me a sandwich, you miserable sack of shit.” John Winchester smacks his hand on the back of his youngest son's head, startling the man out of his trance-like state.

“You been drinking again, Dad?” Sam asks in reply, scooting off the couch and shuffling to the kitchen. He opens the cupboard and pulls out a bag of Wonder bread.

“Pff, no, of course not,” John responds, his words slurring. He slumps against the chair. “Why don't you go do something with your life, huh? You're 20 now. You should have a job, a wife. Kids. Why do you have to ruin the family name?”

Sam sighs, cutting up meat and lettuce and sprinkling them on the bread. “First of all, I'm 30. Second, I can't get a job, because YOU don't have enough money to pay for my college education. And no intelligent woman would want a grunt for a husband.” Sam plops the sandwich on a plate and brings it over to John.

John snorts and takes the snack. “Not like any college would accept you. You're an idiot.” He munches on the sandwich, mayonnaise spilling over his lips.

Sam scrunches his forehead. “You don't mean that.”

“Yeah, I do. You always got bad marks on your reports.”

Sam sputters. “That was because I always missed my classes! Since, you know, you NEVER drove me to school and I always had to run there.” He knows he shouldn't be getting worked up, that it only leads to pain. He promised Dean he would stop. But Dean doesn't know the whole truth, since Sam never lets him visit. It would cause too much trouble.

John lifts an eyebrow at him. “I hope I'm not making you upset,” he says sarcastically. He puts down the plate and stands, slowly making his way over to Sam. He stops, looks his son square in the eye, and slaps him across his cheek. “That's for being a little bitch,” he states casually, and heads off to his room.

Sam remains frozen in his spot.

_Fight it._

_You have to fight it._

_You can't let this happen every time he does something to you._

_…_  
  
 _Fuck._

* * *

**_25 years previously._ **

_“Dean, stop it! It's my candy bar, Daddy bought it for me ONLY.” Sammy swats at Dean with his chubby hand, desperately attempting to get back his chocolate. Dean grins._

_“Nuh uh, I'm bigger than you, so it's actually MINE.” Dean swipes the candy bar from Sam's grasp, ripping open the tin foil._

_Sammy sticks out his lower lip. “Mommy! Dean's being mean to me and stealing my chocolate!” he cries, fat tears rolling down his red cheeks._

_Mary sighs from the passenger seat, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Dean, split the candy bar in half and give one piece to your brother. The BIGGER piece, since it's technically his.” She turns around. “And both of you, could you please keep it down until we get to the hotel? This is our vacation, let's not ruin it before it's even started, okay? Okay.” She leans her head against the back of the seat, a headache forming in her skull._

_There's silence for several seconds._

_“DEAN, MOMMY SAID TO GIVE ME THE BIGGER PIECE! YOU JUST GAVE ME A CRUMB!”_

_John turns around to face the boys, an angry glint in his eye. “Both of you, shut the hell up! Can't you see that your mother needs her sleep?”_

_Mary cries out in alarm. “John, look out!”_  
  
 _“What?” John says, whipping around back to the steering wheel. A large truck looms several feet ahead. He swerves the wheel, and the car jolts around, skittering across the road and into a field of grass before plowing into a giant tree._

_**7 hours later.** _

_“W-wha-?” John mumbles, rubbing his head. How long has he been unconscious? Where are -oh. Oh, God. They hit something. He'd been giving the boys a lecture, and not paying attention to the road, and they'd hit something. Where's Mary? Where are his kids?_

_He looks around. He's in a small, clean white room, with shelves containing various medical equipment. Oh. It's a hospital. That's good. There's a small knock on the door, and John looks up, startled._

_A man in a green shirt with a stethoscope enters the room, his white shoes squeaking on the waxed floor. He smiles warmly at John. “It's good to see that you're awake,” he comments, coming over to the side of the bed._

_John smirks back. “Yeah. How long was I out, Doc?” he asks, sitting up._

_“About seven hours.”_

_John raises his eyebrows. “SEVEN hours? Wow, I must've gotten banged up really bad, huh?” he chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “How's Mary? And Dean and Sam?”_

_The doctor's smile fades, and his eyes soften. He scrunches his forehead. “John, I have some very, very bad news. I'm going to need you to listen very carefully, okay?”_

_John's pulse quickens. “What is it? Are they alright?” he asks, panicking._

_The doctor reaches out and places a hand on John's arm. “Sir, listen to me. You have to remain calm, alright? If you don't, you can face a heart attack.”_

_John stills his body, focusing his eyes on the doctor. “Okay. Okay. What is it? What's happened to my family?” he says, his voice scarily quiet._

_The doctor takes a deep breath. “The good thing is, you're kids are mostly fine. They've suffered several head injuries, and the younger one fractured a rib, but other than that, they're okay. But...you're wife, Mary, didn't make it. She passed away in the ambulance due to severe brain damage and loss of blood. I'm very, very sorry for your loss, Mr. Winchester.” The doctor squeezes his arm slightly, attempting to provide some comfort. “When you're ready, you can call someone up to help you fill out several papers concerning her death.” He smiles sadly at John, then quietly stands to leave the room._

_John stares at him in shock. No. This can't be happening. His wife, his beautiful Mary – dead?! He can't accept it. But...it was HIM who crashed into the tree. It was his fault! The woman he loved has died, and it is completely his fault._

_Suddenly, he remembers something. He had turned around...why?_

_He sucks in a breath._

_He was yelling at Sam._

_Sam had distracted him with his crying._

_It's Sam's fault that Mary has died._

_John's eyes darken, and he looks up at the doctor. “Excuse me, sir, could you tell me what room my sons are in?”_

* * *

Present day.

“It's my fault, Dean, it's all my fault,” Sam cries out the second Dean picks up the phone. He's lying in his bed, one hand holding the receiver, the other hand clutching his crack pipe. The panic in his voice is rising. “I know I said I wouldn't do it anymore, Dean, but I have to, I have to!”

“Whoa, whoa! Sammy, slow down. What's going on?” Dean asks from the other end of the line. He sounds surprised; Sam hasn't called him in months.

“Heroin! It's the only thing that can help me DEAL with him!”

“Who?”

“Dad,” Sam whispers, a haunted look in his eyes.

Dean is confused. “Dad?” he replies. He pauses. “Sam, what's been happening over there?” he asks, suspicion growing.

“Nothing!” Sam responds hastily. He gulps. “Absolutely nothing, there is no need for you to come visit. I shouldn't have called in the first place. Bye.” He slams down the phone and holds his head in his hands.

One hour later, the front door bursts open, and Dean stalks inside, a glare on his face. “Sammy!” he calls, his voice booming throughout the house. Sam rushes over.

“Dean? What the hell are you doing here? I told you not to come; I can take care of myself!” Sam yells, his face flushing hotly.

Dean shoves him aside, stepping into the living room. “Dad! Get the fuck out here now!” he shouts.

John pokes his head out his bedroom door. “Hey, Dean. Haven't seen you in a while.” He grins.

Dean races over to him. “What's been going on around here? What are you doing to Sam?” he growls, shoving his face in menacingly.

John wrinkles his brow. “Nothing,” he scoffs.

Dean turns to Sam. “What is he doing to you, Sammy?” he asks.

Sam shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot. “Not really anything important,” he says softly. He gazes at the wall. “He just – he says it's my fault. Mom's death, I mean. And he says that I'm not good enough. And sometimes he hits me.” He looks up, alarmed at his words. “But it doesn't hurt,” he adds quickly.

Dean stares at John, shocked. Sure, he wasn't the best father when they were growing up – he drank all the time, and he barely payed any attention to the boys – but Dean never remembers John _hurting_ Sam. When Dean had left 3 years ago to pursue a music career, he'd asked Sam to join him, but his brother had refused, claiming he was going to go to college. Now, it's clear to Dean that he was lying.

“Okay. Well, that settles it. Sam – you're coming with me.” Dean grabs his brother's arm and pulls him towards the door. Sam struggles to get free.

“No! Dean, I TOLD you, I can take care of myself. I'm a grown man.” Sam wrenches his arm.

Dean snorts. “You're not right in the head. Even if his hits didn't hurt all that much physically, he's been shouting fucked up stuff at you since you were six years old!” Sam stares at Dean, stunned. Dean nods his head towards John. “Oh, yeah. I saw you, saying that Mom's death was all Sammy's fault. It's why I wanted him to come with me so badly.” Dean shakes his head. “But I made the mistake of letting him stay here. Well, you know what? I'm fixing it now.” Dean pulls Sam out the door.

“I don't give a shit! You can go rot in Hell for all I care!” John shouts as Dean slams the door shut behind them.

“What am I going to do now?!” Sam exclaims once they're safely on the sidewalk, panting heavily. He stares at Dean expectantly.

Dean looks around for several seconds, thinking. He lights up. “I'm taking you to the hospital,” he decides, then grabs Sam's arm and yanks him to the Impala.

Sam gapes at him, horrified. “What?! Why?!” he yelps, clumsily climbing in the passenger seat.

Dean slides the key into its slot. “Because I wasn't lying back there. John messed up your mind. All our lives, I've seen you. I've watched you. You think your worthless, and you're taking HEROIN.” He turns the wheel, letting the car twist into the local hospital's parking lot. “But you know what, Sammy? You're not worthless. You may think you are, but you're not. And this place will help you realize that.” He turns off the car, unbuckles his seat belt, and pulls Sam to the entrance.


	2. The Peculiarities of Friendship

“Sam?” There's a knock on the door, and one of the nurses pokes their head in. “Sam, it's time for group activity in room A1. Want me to take you there?”

Sam lifts his head, startled out of his trance. He looks around his room, fully taking in its bland decorations for the first time since his arrival two days before. It's white, with a squeaky clean floor and a blue chair in the corner. There's a small table next to his bed that contains a phone, several magazines, and a gray vase of various flowers. Sam glances at the nurse and shakes his head slightly.

The nurse exhales softly. “Sam, I understand that you might not be feeling up to being around other people, but the only way you can heal from your addiction is to try. Can you try for me?” At Sam's silence, she walks over and puts her hands on his shoulders. “Can you try for your brother? For Dean?”

Sam's eyes dart up at that, and he heaves a great sigh before standing up and letting the nurse lead him down the sterile hallway and into a room that smells of floor wax.

“You don't even have to talk to anyone,” the nurse whispers in Sam's ear. “All you have to do is find an activity - such as drawing, or possibly watching a movie – and do it with someone. No talking necessary, just basic human interaction. Okay?” She smiles at him, then quietly leaves, the door shutting softly behind her.

Sam shifts his eyes around the room. A table with blank pieces of paper scattered around it is settled in the center, with a group of men and women gathered around it. They're all whispering to each other, passing crayons back and forth and smiling slightly.

There are other things going on – people building things with blocks, forming clay with their fingers – but Sam's attention is caught on one man, who's tucked away in a dark corner of the room, scribbling furiously away at a sheet of looseleaf. Curiosity stirred, Sam shuffles over and seats himself across from the man.

“Hey,” he says, casually slinging his arms over the back of his chair.

The man looks up, startled out of his writing. He squints his eyes at Sam. “Hello,” he greets. He blinks. “Are you in need of assistance?” he asks.

Sam takes a breath. The man's voice is deep and gravelly, and his stare is electrifying. He has a certain air, an _aura_ , surrounding him, an energy that makes it impossible to look away. “No, I just...wanted to know what you're writing,” Sam answers.

The man blinks again. “Oh,” he says, looking down at his paper as if he can't quite remember why it's there. “Oh.” He glances at Sam. “It's-it's math.” He twists the paper around and points at it. “Just mathematics. Nothing deep, or even remotely interesting to you, I would assume.” He rests his pencil on the table and fidgets nervously with his hands.

“Ah,” Sam says in response. He nods at the paper. “And do you like math?” he prompts.

The man is surprised, as if he wasn't expecting Sam to continue talking to him. “Oh, yes,” he replies, smiling slightly. “I do. I like the black and whiteness of it, how things are either right or wrong.” He casts his eyes downward. “Unlike life, math has no gray areas.”

Sam stares at him. _Sounds deep and interesting to me_ , he thinks, marveling at the man's modesty. “I'm Sam, by the way,” he says, holding out his hand. “What's your name?”

The man widens his eyes, then hesitantly reaches out and shakes Sam's hand. “Castiel,” he answers softly, his face a mixture of wonder and suspicion. He studies Sam, searching him with his eyes and lighting up with discovery. It's unnerving.

“Well, Castiel,” Sam says, pointing to the paper. “Can you teach me some things?”

Castiel looks amused. “Certainly,” he replies, handing Sam a pen.

* * *

 

“I'm here to see someone?” Dean says to the man behind the desk.

The man looks up. “Sure,” he responds easily, pulling out a clipboard from a drawer, along with a pencil. “Who are you here to visit?”

“Sam Winchester.” Dean takes the pencil and paper, glancing over the questions quickly.

“And how long ago was he admitted?”

“A week.”

The man smiles. “Well, if you'll just take a seat over there and fill that out, I'll call his room and let him know you're here.” He picks up his phone.

Dean looks around and pulls up one of the scratchy blue hospital chairs, settles himself down, and begins scratching away at the questions.

After a few minutes, Dean stands up and hands the clipboard back to the man.

The man takes it and glances it over. His eyes widen. “Your name is Dean Winchester?” he asks, surprised.

Dean nods.

“As in, Dean Winchester from The Angels?”

Dean nods again.

The man grins widely, standing up to shake Dean's hand. “Wow, sir, it's an honor to meet you! I'm a huge fan of your music,” he exclaims.

Dean smiles. “The pleasure's all mine,” he replies, clapping the man on the shoulder. “It's hard to come across true fans these days,” he says.

The man frowns. “Really?” he asks, furrowing his brow.

Dean shrugs his shoulders. “Yep. Band's not doing so well. I think I'm gonna have to find a new line of work pretty soon.” He laughs slightly. “So keep buying those albums, you hear?”

The man chuckles in response. “I will!”

Sam appears from behind a door. “Dean?”

Dean turns at the sound of his name. “Sam!” he calls, jogging over to hug his brother. “How've you been, man?”

Sam grins slightly. “Actually, I've been pretty good.”

Dean widens his eyes, taken aback. “Really?” he replies. “That's awesome!” He glances around at the staff. “Wow, this place must be magic, 'cause a week ago I know you were feeling pretty shitty.”

Sam huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, well, you know. I kinda made a friend.”

Dean's smile grows. “Really?” he asks, lifting his eyebrows. “And would this happen to be a lady friend?”

Sam punches him lightly on the shoulder. “NO. It's a guy friend. And he's pretty cool.”

“So what do you two talk about?”

Sam hesitates. “Well...math,” he answers, giving in.

Dean snorts. “Yeah, that sounds really cool, Sam.” He shakes his head. “But really, in all seriousness, I'm happy for you. It's good to hang out with people, you know, talk. Connect.” He makes a vague gesture with his hands. “All that other stuff.”

Sam chuckles, opening his mouth to reply, but instead his eyes catch on a group of nurses huddled in a corner. He taps his brothers arm. “Hey, Dean, what's going on over there?” he asks, pointing to the small crowd.

Dean turns. He recognizes the receptionist from before within the group, and smiles, shaking his head slightly. “My fan club, I'm assuming,” he laughs. He punches Sam's shoulder lightly. “Let's go see what they want, huh?”

The brothers stroll down the hallway to the circle of workers, who are all whispering excitedly and gesturing to Dean. Sam clears his throat.

“What are you guys talking about?” he asks nonchalantly.

The nurses all start, then turn a deep shade of crimson, embarrassed beyond belief. One of the younger girls speaks up. “Well, um, we were just, um...we were just talking about how much we like Dean Winchester's music, and how we were hoping he might...uh...play a song for us?” She squeezes her eyes shut, waiting for the inevitable rejection.

But Dean smiles easily. “Sure!” he says, unstrapping his acoustic guitar from behind his back. “Good thing I always carry this with me,” he jokes.

Sam directs the group to a larger activity room and seats them at one of the tables. Dean pulls up a seat in front of them and carefully tunes his guitar.

“So, Mr. Winchester, what will you be playing for us today?” asks one of the elderly gentlemen when Dean finishes tuning up.

Dean grins. “Something new that I've been working on. I'm hoping to get it passed Bernie; it's a little...different from my other hits.” He clears his throat, places his fingers on the frets, and starts slowly strumming the strings of his instrument.

He opens his mouth.

 


End file.
